


A Thousand Years

by evocates



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Afterlife, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-02
Updated: 2013-04-08
Packaged: 2017-12-07 06:31:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/745389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evocates/pseuds/evocates
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>King Elessar brought a hundred twenty years of peace to the lands of Men. In Fourth Age 120, he lays down to rest, and history can record no more. But there are other forms of memories. Based on around four prompts from hobbit_kink. Two ficlets a day (if I remember) until it's all posted.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Million Doors to Eternity

**Author's Note:**

> This is more of a ficlet series than a whole fic, honestly. But you kind of have to read them in order for them to make sense. All titles from Sting's [A Thousand Years](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_169i3YLt18). Beta'd by the best of bunnies ; all remaining mistakes are mine.
> 
>  _Series framework:_ [I've loved you for a thousand years](http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/2320.html?thread=10471184#t10471184)  
>  _A Million Doors to Eternity:_ None  
>  _Tower of Souls:_ [Boromir and Aragorn reunite in the afterlife and their embrace says everything](http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/2320.html?thread=10470160#t10470160)  
>  _Only One Truth to Face:_ None  
>  _Reborn as Fortune's Child:_ [Kneel before the King](http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/2320.html?thread=8151568#t8151568)  
>  _Wear This Pilgrim's Cloak, or be a Common Thief:_ [On your knees](http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/2320.html?thread=9143568#t9143568) (kind of)  
>  _Eternities Still Unsaid:_ None

**A Million Doors to Eternity**   
_Aragorn/Arwen, implied Aragorn/Boromir_

“I knew this day will come.”

King Elessar, House of Telcontar, turned at the sound of the familiar voice. His Queen stood at the doorway, dressed as her wont in silver and blue. She was as beautiful on this day as she was the first day they had met, when the name of Aragorn was a new burden on his shoulders and the winged crown of Gondor a fearful future. Now the silver in his hair had chased away the brown, but thankfully his hand did not shake when he reached out and took a long strand of shadow-dark hair between his fingers.

“Aye, it has,” he murmured in reply. He pressed her hair to his lips, inhaling her sweet scent, so much like spring flowers newly-bloomed in Imladris despite the long years they had both been parted from the valley. “’Tis a cruel fate I have laid upon your shoulders, Lady Undómiel.”

Arwen stepped forward immediately, her fingers pressing gently against his lips. “Nay, do not speak so. For a hundred and twenty years we have shared these chambers,” she said, spreading her arms outwards to indicate the spacious room around them, the walls still decorated with their daughters’ first clumsy efforts at weaving, “and I regret none of them.”

“Yet,” her voice faltered, her fingers shifting until they caressed his face and, Elessar knew, the beard that had silvered long ago. “Yet you can live for another six scores years more, Estel. You need not to take the One’s gift so early.”

“Nay, I cannot,” said Elessar quietly. Though they had never spoken of this before, it was already an old argument between them, fought between their eyes as they lay on the great royal bed together. For long nights Elessar had laid awake looking at the hands that were still strong enough to hold a sword, but how long would he still be able to? For how long would he still be strong? 

“I knew this too, that I could not change your mind,” Arwen whispered. It was in her eyes that he saw her age, though the ravages of time had not drawn any lines that could mar her beauty. 

Elessar knew he should apologise, but no words came to his lips. Westron held no words for what he was to do and the languages of the ageless Elves had no words for true death, for their warriors who fell in battle knew they would see each other again in the Halls of Mandos. The fate of Men was unknown even to their King. Elessar had not the reassurance the Valar gave to Beren and Luthien; they did not know if they would ever see each other again at the end of death’s road. If there was a road to travel at all.

“You must not forget these,” Arwen said after a long silence had fallen between them. She turned around, picking up a worn box made from the wood of the _lebethron_ tree. Elessar recognised it immediately, his breath catching in his throat.

Lifting the lid from the box, he gently brushed away the cedar chips – scattered to keep away the moths – from the old leather vambraces. A hundred and twenty years it had been since they were last worn, but Elessar remembered the Ranger who once was, and the Ranger kept the vambraces well. They were the last remnants of a Man he sent over the Rauros Falls, a physical reminder of the promise he had once made that had led him to this throne.

The White Tree gleamed brightly in the fading light of the setting sun that shone through the windows. Elessar’s arms were bare, and he knew that this was the place the vambraces belonged. Slowly, reverently, he strapped them over his arms, feeling the cold leather take up his body’s warmth. The King shivered, feeling time tilt around himself, and he thought he could smell the waters of the Anduin once more. His lips burned, a kiss given sixty score years ago still remaining on his lips, and he knew not what his gaze contained when he looked at Arwen once more.

“Your love is the greatest gift I have ever known in this life,” Elessar whispered. He kissed his Evenstar with burning lips, the flames of a sun that was long turned into legend melding with the gentle heat of the stars in his own heart, and he felt the last knot in his shoulders loosen. 

“I must go,” he said.

“I will lead you there.”

They walked together hand in hand towards the Halls of Kings. Their son followed behind them, but Elessar noticed him not. Time was a river with currents that took him back to the past, and as Elessar walked to his death, he remembered the first steps he took with Arwen by his side in this very Citadel with Gondor’s people cheering their every step. So long ago it was, the generations of Men who once raised their voices long gone and replaced by their children and their children’s children.

Elessar had lived long past his time. The friends he had known were long gone, dead for more than sixty years. Merry was the last of the Fellowship to leave him, and Elessar knew Eldarion would have the little hobbits’ remains transferred to the Halls of Kings after Elessar’s own death. It was a desperate attempt, but he feared, in the depths of his heart, the loneliness of death.

The stone was cold as he lifted himself up to sit upon it. Eldarion came forward, and in the presence of the Queen and Princesses, Elessar lifted Gondor’s winged crown and placed it on his son’s brow. It was an inheritance the boy, now man, was long due, and Elessar sighed quietly as he felt the burden lift from his shoulders. He said his farewells to his daughters the day before, and this was the last duty he had left.

“Do not forget to listen to your people,” Elessar said to his son, and those were the last words spoken by the King of Men. It was Aragorn, the long missed and nearly-faded Ranger, who watched as Gondor’s Queen turned from him, tears shining like the cruellest of stars in her eyes. She drew down the black veil, waving their son away. Eldarion retreated, his shoulders hunching over and Aragorn pitied him for the weight of the crown he must surely feel.

He reached out his hands, knowing that he asked much of her, but Arwen came towards him nonetheless. 

“He has sent you here,” she said quietly, her hands stroking over the warmed leather, travelling up his arms until they cupped his face. “Let him receive you wherever you might go, my husband, for I cannot.”

“I will wait for you.” He took her night-dark hair in his hands. It was like the richest of silks, and her lips trembled as she kissed him for the last time.

Gently Arwen laid him down onto the great slab of stone. The chill seeped into his bones like death rushing to take him. Slowly he crossed his arms, pressing the White Tree above his heart, feeling its warmth as he took his last sight of Arwen while he still lived in Arda, in the world of Men.

As he closed his eyes and allowed himself to fall towards death, Aragorn thought he saw a glint of green and gold at the corner of his fading sight.


	2. Tower of Souls

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: [Boromir and Aragorn reunite in the afterlife and their embrace says everything](http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/2320.html?thread=10470160#t10470160)

**Tower of Souls  
** _Aragorn, implied Aragorn/Arwen and Aragorn/Boromir_

When Aragorn awoke, the ground was moving beneath him. He shifted, trying to gain his bearings. Around him, the wind howled, blowing his hair into his eyes, and Aragorn was shocked by his complete lack of surprise at the darkness of the strands. Tangling his fingers in them, he brought them close, and he laughed out loud at the sight oily lankiness. His beard was no longer the full, rich one he grew as Elessar but the straggly stubble of the Ranger.

A hundred and twenty years he had spent as a King, yet it seemed the crown had always sat uncomfortably on his brow. He was still a Ranger, and death seemed to only confirm it. For he knew he was dead; the memory of lying down in the Halls of Kings, the darkness that swept him up and the silence that took over him, far deeper than sleep, was a startlingly clear memory.

“I do beg of you to stop moving,” a voice said. “If you fall it will be a great deal of trouble to try to catch you.”

Aragorn blinked. Long years as King in the time of peace had dulled his reflexes, but it seemed death gave them back to him for his hands clenched tightly on the shifting ground beneath him before he could fall. No, not the ground, Aragorn realised with a start. He looked at his fingers, clasping _feathers_ below him, and he realised he was on the back of a great bird, and he was flying through the skies.

“I will not fall,” he said, and he was surprised once more at the calm in his voice. Looking around, Aragorn lost his breath at the sights that spread below him. Clouds thicker than any he had ever seen were right below him, and he stared at the clear liquid on his fingers as he stretched them out to touch. It was water, as clean and fresh as any from the clearest spring, and he cupped his hands and reached out as far as he dared. Like drinking dew, he thought, taking in a sharp breath, and he realised the skies were cold and he need not breathe.

The hawk’s wings flapped hard, blowing strong winds into his face, and Aragorn brushed his hair away impatiently.

“Do you have a name?” he could not help but ask. He knew the great eagles, friends of Gandalf who saved Frodo and Sam from Mount Doom so many years and yet no time at all ago, but this creature was surely far more magnificent.

“Your people named me Lukasarkuva,” said the bird. He turned his head away, and its beak was sharp and shaped like a hawk’s. _Corpse-Swallower_ , Aragorn translated, Quenya coming back to him in a rush. 

“There are others who have named me Hræsvelgr. ‘Tis my duty to bring the worthy dead to the great Tower.”

“The Tower,” Aragorn repeated. “What is it?”

“You will see it soon,” the great hawk replied, and Aragorn held on tightly to the strong feathers beneath his fingers as they soared through the skies. Once he had stood in the bower of a great ship, looking out towards the vast blue seas and he thought it must surely felt like this to fly. Yet the sensations were no match for the feel of the hawk’s wings moving beneath his legs, the winds that buffeted against him, and the world that spread itself beneath his feet.

He parted his lips to ask of the Tower once more when silver came to the corner of his eyes, and cold air rushed into his lungs once more as he saw a glimmering spike of pearl and silver appear, peeking out through the clouds. As the hawk swooped down, green fields and great trees unfolded themselves before his vision, Aragorn’s eyes knew not what to take in. He was torn between the marvel of the Tower that reached from the ground to the sky, and the plants scattered amongst the fields, so small though they were from a great distance away.

Instinct tugged at him, and Aragorn smiled at the thought of the Ranger’s strange foresight that lingered in the King’s heart and now followed him to death. He turned his head and found a silver ribbon winding through green, and before he understood his own desires, his voice was already ringing through the air.

“Lord Lukasarkuva _,_ I beg of you: take me to the river.”

“You do not wish to see the Tower?” the hawk inquired, but he was obliging nonetheless. Fields sailed beneath them, growing closer and closer as the hawk turned in the direction of the river.

“Something calls to me.” 

Wings swept along the ground, raising a gentle gale. Long grass blades rustled, their heavy yellow tips spreading golden flecks everywhere. Green and gold, Aragorn thought suddenly, and he looked towards the river. Arwen sent him towards Boromir, and yet he could not see the Man who should have been his steward anywhere.

A sudden fear seized his heart, and he spun around, trying to force words out of a closed throat. Lukasarkuva looked at his eyes and seemed to know his query without Aragorn speaking a word. 

The great hawk shook his head. “I do not ask for the names of those I carry here, but I do know this: Men with true worth and strong spirits will not be abandoned by the Valar and ‘tis they that I serve. Have faith; if the Man you seek is one with honour, you will find him here.”

“Thank you,” Aragorn answered, lowering his head. “’Tis a relief to hear.”

Around him the grass whistled as Lukasarkuva took off, huge wings spreading out, a single one greater than the length of a Man. Aragorn watched as he disappeared into the skies, marvelling at the thought of having been upon this magnificent creature’s back. He did not wonder how he was brought here just as Elves did not ponder the means by which they reached Mandos’s Halls upon their death in battle. It was simply the Valar’s doing, and though Aragorn was a King, he was still a Man, and a Man’s lot was not to ask of the doings of the great ones.

Yet he could not help but worry, for in his death Boromir had despair still in his eyes, and he believed so strongly that he had lost his honour. All Aragorn had to offer him for his loyalty and his sworn oath were a few words and a promise of his own, and though he knew he had kept that promise, did Boromir know? Could he know? Would Aragorn be able to tell him of Gondor, of the glory of the sun’s golden light as it skimmed across the white marble of Minas Tirith? 

Would he see Boromir here, or would they still be cruelly parted? Aragorn knew not, and he thought, suddenly wry, there that seemed little difference between death and life.

A scent caught his nose, and he turned. In the distance he saw a tree, its colours searing bright. Aragorn remembered a necklace a craftsman had made once in tribute for the Queen of Gondor, with heavy emeralds large as a man’s thumb and the finest and most glowing of gold braided together into a light chain. Yet the brilliance of gems and metals seemed nothing in the face of this tree with its dark green leaves and dark yellow undersides, like butter fresh from the churn. His feet took him towards it, and Aragorn reached out and cupped a pale blossom between his large hands, cradling it gently.

Elrond’s library was rich with books, and in Aragorn’s studies of healing he knew many plants. This was one he had never once seen in Middle Earth, but he knew nonetheless. It was the _lavaralda_ , a tree found only in the lost island of Tol Eressëa, the beautiful and blessed island, and was later brought to Númenor. The books spoke of its scent, so rich it could be carried by sea winds without being lost, and Aragorn dipped his head down and took a deep breath. 

He sailed on the heavens on the back of a giant hawk, but it was only this tree, so long lost to the world of Men, that he knew he was in the resting place the One had set aside for Men. Where else could such a tree thrive, when Númenor was lost for so long?

Deep in his reverie, it took Aragorn’s a few heartbeat’s worth of time to hear the sudden sound of a drawing sword, the rasp of metal that broke through the quiet peace of the river’s bank. Swinging around, his hand went immediately to his hip – but Andúril was left behind, one of Eldarion’s many inheritances, and Aragorn was left to face the intruder unarmed.

Green and gold had haunted him for a hundred and twenty years, and the reason now stood before him. Boromir was tall and his eyes were bright; he appeared as if stepping out of the many dreams Aragorn had in the long years he spent as King. There was not a single change in him, no new lines, and Aragorn’s mouth was dry and his tongue stilled. So many words clamoured in his head that he knew not how to begin, and he could only reach out a hand.

Boromir knew his heart nonetheless. The sword thudded heavily on the ground, swallowed up by the long grasses, but Aragorn barely heard the sound for Boromir’s fingers were now tangled in his own. They looked at each other and the long space of time that separated them fell away as a single heartbeat passed.

 _For a hundred and twenty years I have wished for you to be by my side_. Aragorn’s chest ached with the weight of his thoughts. _When I died I did so wishing I could see you. I have left my Queen behind, and my children, and I feared death naught for I thought it would bring me to your side._

A single step he took that brought him closer to Boromir. Their eyes did not leave each other, and this close, Aragorn could see the brilliance of those eyes, now undimmed by despair and desperation and fear.

_Do you know how strong Gondor has grown? Have you watched it as its people lived under a sky untouched by shadows, as a new generation grew old knowing the fear of Mordor only in tales?_

His hands trembled as they wrapped around Boromir’s shoulders, the touch so light for Aragorn still feared the Man would disappear. Boromir let out his breath in a gust that was immediately swallowed by the winds around them. He leaned forward, and their foreheads touched.

When Boromir drew him into his arms and Aragorn felt their hearts’ rhythms match unerringly, he found that there was no need for words at all. There was only heat; only the rumbling of Boromir’s laughter against his own chest; only the soft breaths against his ear.

It was not death that brought him peace.


	3. Only One Truth to Face

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No prompts for this one.

**Only One Truth to Face  
** _Aragorn/Boromir_

Boromir’s heartbeat thrummed against his own, as steady as the sound of the bells high up on the Citadel on King Elessar’s wedding day. Aragorn held Boromir close for as long as he dared, until his heart lost its steel and melted into the same rhythm, beating alongside Boromir’s own.

When they finally pulled apart, Aragorn could not stop his fingers from cupping Boromir’s face. It was a liberty he took, but Boromir allowed it, his lips curving into a sweet smile that Aragorn had not seen while they were still alive. This was not a dream, he realised suddenly, and with that thought, the last fear in his heart fell away.

Green eyes turned downwards, and Boromir laughed, his fingers trailing along Aragorn’s arm. “Those are familiar vambraces, my King,” he teased. “I have been missing them.”

Biting his lip, Aragorn felt his cheeks start to heat up. He tugged on the ends of his hair. “I took them after your death,” he said quietly. “They are a reminder of the promise I made. I apologise.”

“Nay.” Boromir shook his head. “They can be in no better hands than your own.”

Aragorn parted his lips to speak, but before a single word could form on his tongue, Boromir pulled away, looking out towards the river near them. “Time passes strangely in these lands. There is no death here, not even for the animals and horses. There is always food wherever we can find it, and I have only seen Men and Hobbits who come to this place. I know that more than a hundred years have passed, but it seems far less for though the sun rises on each day, spring is never-ending. I mark time only by those who come, and those who leave.”

“There are those who leave?” blurted out Aragorn despite himself. Involuntarily, his hand clenched at his side.

“They do not leave these lands,” Boromir turned back towards him, and his smile was beautiful to behold. “Where will they go? We are dead now, without Middle Earth to roam. Yet this place seems to stretch on without end, and many leave the vicinity of the Tower to make their homes elsewhere.”

“But you have not,” noted Aragorn. In his chest, his heart roared, and he took a step forward.

“I have not,” replied Boromir. He looked down to his own hands before his eyes darted towards Aragorn, towards the vambraces that Aragorn wore, and his smile widened tentatively.

“I have been waiting for my King.”

Aragorn’s breath stopped in his throat. They did not know each other for long, and though Aragorn had dreamed many a time of days when Boromir survived and they lived together as King and Steward, he had not expected Boromir to ever wish for the same. It was a dream he held close to his chest, closer still for he thought it impossible, and yet looking into those eyes, he thought that it might be true. 

They might not be King and Steward here, but Boromir might wish to stay by his side. Aragorn found himself stumbling forward, his hands closing around Boromir’s wrists, holding him close and feeling the thrum of his pulse beneath his own fingers.

“’Tis a great honour,” he said finally, his voice soft and hoarse.

“Faramir told me that he saw me in the river in a dream,” said Boromir. “I do not remember that, or the roar of the Rauros that heralded my coming in his dream. The last I knew of Middle Earth was the sight of your eyes, and the gentle kiss you laid upon my brow.” He reached out, taking Aragorn’s hand. Slowly, his eyes fixed on Aragorn’s, he pressed a kiss against the knuckles. “There are many Men I knew whom I greeted with joy, and many more for whom I grieved as they had died before their time, ‘twas only in later days that friends with whom I can speak with freely came. ‘Twas the memory of you that kept my heart warm during the long days I have spent here and chased the chill of loneliness away.”

Boromir shook his head suddenly, as if surprised by the words that spilled from his lips. Aragorn was shocked into silence himself, and he wondered once more if this was a dream – a death-dream, more cruel than any he had before; a fantasy that danced across his mind because the oblivion of death and the obliteration of all memory. Yet Boromir stood so solidly before him, and the words he spoke were words Aragorn had never known. He did not prize his imagination so to think he could conjure up this world on his own as well.

He made to speak, but his mouth closed with a clack of teeth in the next moment. More words poured out of Boromir’s mouth, his words quick as if he had been storing them up for years.

“Tell me of Gondor, my Lord,” breathed Boromir, reaching out to grip Aragorn by the shoulders. “There are many tales my brother and friends have told me of my city, but I wish most of all to know it from your lips.”

“Why do you wish to know of a home that you can never return to?” asked Aragorn, and immediately he regretted his words.

Yet Boromir seemed to take no offence. He only smiled, and said, “Why does a farmer or tavern owner wish for news of faraway lands from merchants? Why does a traveller, long from home, wish for news of the place where he has left his heart?”

Gently, Boromir’s fingers reached upwards, curving over Aragorn’s cheek. 

There was naught more Aragorn wished at this moment than to take Boromir in his arms, to press his lips against the other Man’s and stop all words, to feel his warm body against his own and remind himself that this Man he so often dreamed of was no longer a mere fantasy. Yet Aragorn was a King even though he had shed Elessar’s crown and duties, and Boromir was the first Man to pledge himself to him. This was a small favour he could grant.

“Gondor thrives,” replied Aragorn, his voice soft. “Her people are happy. Their lives are without fear of the Shadow; generations have passed since the fall of Mordor, and even the oldest of Men in the city no longer remember much of the fear of war. Arnor has been rebuilt, and Annúminas shines once more like the jewel of Evendim again. There is trade with the Haradrim, and even the Corsairs have rested their swords and ships, no longer attacking the White City.”

“What of Osgiliath? What of Minas Ithil?” Boromir leaned in further, his breath ghosting over Aragorn’s jaw. “Has the Shadow been exorcised there as well?”

“’Twas one of my first decrees to cleanse both cities,” replied Aragorn wryly. “I fear that they will never regain the glory that they once owned, for though the War is long past some fears still remain. ‘Tis around Emyn Arnen, near to the Anduin, that the peoples of Ithilien have made their home. Surely Faramir has told you this, for Ithilien is his pride, and he rules over those peoples.”

“Aye, he has,” said Boromir. “I worry, nonetheless, for my brother might have softened his words so as not to worry me.” His eyes clouded over. “I wish only that I could have done more for Gondor.”

“You have done much for her,” said Aragorn fiercely. “Six score years have passed since my crowning, and for six score years you have been with me, a beloved spirit constantly by my side, guiding my hand as I ruled over the city you love and which I learned to love as well.” He took Boromir’s hand, pressing it tight against his own cheek, before he pressed a gentle kiss against the wrist.

“Arwen was dying during the Quest, for the Ring’s influence had darkened the world so much that it sunk into her bones and nigh poisoned her. ‘Twas for her that I fought to destroy Sauron, but ‘twas the promise I made to you, made solid by your vambraces on my arms, that I took the Golden Throne.”

“We are both spirits now,” murmured Boromir. His thumb pressed gently against Aragorn’s cheekbone, sliding down through rough bear to brush, light as a feather, over his lips. “We are given solid form and a new home by the grace of the One and the Valar.”

Suddenly, his hand dropped to his side and he took a step backwards. “Will you tell me of our Queen? For surely she is well?”

Aragorn started, his eyes widening. “Our?”

“Aye,” replied Boromir, and his smile had an inscrutable edge. “She is your chosen Queen, and you are my King, Aragorn. Thus she is mine as well.”

“She is well,” said Aragorn. He took a step forward. Emboldened when Boromir did not move away, he lifted one callused hand and replaced it back on his cheek. “No doubt my choice to accept the Gift of Men so soon has given her much grief, but surely she will still find joy in our children.”

“So soon?” Boromir laughed. “You are surely over two centuries old!”

“Aye, but the Eldar live for millennia,” replied Aragorn, his voice solemn. “And mortality is a bitter pill to swallow; because we knew not the sweetness of death the we have been granted.”

Boromir cast his eyes down. “Forgive me, my Lord,” he swallowed. “I have taken many liberties.”

“You have taken none I have not wished for,” returned Aragorn immediately.

“What of your Queen?” asked Boromir of the silent grass beneath his feet. “What of Arwen?”

“Arwen is my Queen, my constant love whose light shines like a star in my heart. She is well-named; the Evenstar, the guiding star of my life who led me down this path. But you, Boromir, you are the Sun that nigh blinded me with your brilliance when I saw you truly for the first time. You are the Sun that brought me into the world of Men and brought dawn into my life.”

Boromir fell silent, and for the first time since he decided to take the Gift of Men, Aragorn felt fear and uncertainty. His hand reached out, shaking gently, and it brushed against the edge of Boromir’s jaw. It was the most tentative of touches, and when it remained undeterred, he pressed his fingertips against Boromir’s lips.

“Will you not look at me, Boromir?” Aragorn breathed. “For long years I had wished to see your eyes; will you deny me the sight of them now?”

“I am no Sun,” said Boromir, and his eyes were dark as he lifted them. “I am no fantasy woven the beautiful poetry you have given me; I am but a Man with a Man’s flaws and a Man’s heart. If for long years you have dreamed of me, I do not wish to disappoint you.”

“’Tis a Man I wish for, nothing more,” replied Aragorn. He took a step forward, leaning in until their foreheads touched and their breaths ghosted against each other’s lips. “We have known each other for but short months, and much of that time we wasted quarrelling. I dreamt of a ghost, but you are a solid Man, and there is naught more I wish than for you to help me understand all that I do not know, all that I was wrong about.” Taking a long inhale, he looked deep into Boromir’s eyes and stopped himself from falling into them.

“For I am a Man as well, and I wish to be nothing more. Do not see me as Elessar King, Boromir; know me only as Aragorn, a Man with a Man’s faults.”

“There are few I can find in you, though surely through time I will find more,” said Boromir, chuckling. His laughter was nervous though his hand was bold as he cupped Aragorn’s face. “I wish nothing more to find out those flaws, to know the Man whom I knew as a Ranger and a King both.”

“If what you have said is true, then we have time endless here,” said Aragorn, and he could not help the foolish grin that spread across his lips and crinkled the corners of his eyes. “Let this gentle glade tremble with the sounds of our voices raised in dispute; let it shake more in our joy for each other; let it quiver with our words of love.”

“Aye, ‘tis the place we will stay,” said Boromir. He turned away, teeth white in the placid sun’s light as he bit his lip. “We will wait until Gondor’s glorious Queen rides here upon the wings of the great hawk, and we behold her again.”

“Do not let those worries linger in your thoughts,” said Aragorn, and his hand was without shame as they caressed Boromir’s skin, skimming over his bearded cheek to brush his thumb under a bright green eye. “In the great Hall of Kings, Arwen sent me to you.”

Boromir’s lips parted and surely he made to speak, but Aragorn had learned in long years that there were things that could not be said, and could only be done. He took the last step forward and crushed his lips to Boromir’s, his hand sliding into golden hair as he held the other Man close. Aragorn felt the growing roar of Boromir’s heart as it sped them with each breath exchanged between their lips, and he felt himself smiling as Boromir’s lips melted and melded against his own.

Oh, these were beautiful lands indeed; lands he still knew not the names of. Yet such trifle cares were far from his mind, for the loveliness of the glade laid entirely within the Man Aragorn now held in his arms. Death murdered many wishes and dreams, Aragorn knew well, but he now understood that death could return those dreams tenfold, and made them sweeter than any manner of life could be.


	4. Reborn as Fortune's Child

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: [Kneel before the King](http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/2320.html?thread=8151568#t8151568)

**Reborn as Fortune’s Child**   
_Aragorn/Boromir, NC-17_

Over a century ago, in the midst of a perilous journey that both brought together and sundered forever the Fellowship, Aragorn caught a single glimpse of Boromir’s naked back. It was in Lothlorien, in the beautiful Golden Wood of eternal twilight. The Company followed the Lady of the Light’s bidding and retired for rest, but Aragorn wished to clean the filth of the road from his skin. It was in the bathhouse that he sighted Boromir, looking upon the golden skin bared by Boromir’s own hands. Knowledge startled into Aragorn at that moment, and he knew instinctively the reason for Boromir’s unease in the lands belonging to the Elves.

The unearthly twilight that turned the pale skin of Elves luminous had changed Boromir into a corpse. He looked sickly pale underneath the light, and Aragorn’s heart was filled then with a terrible premonition. On that night he had backed away from the bathhouse, nigh running in the opposite direction while fear clenched its cold fist around his heart. 

The memory was as bright as yesterday’s; perhaps even brighter. Yet it could not compete against the sight of Boromir’s back as it was revealed once more to his eyes, this time in the full light of the Sun where Gondor’s Captain belonged. Aragorn marvelled at the sight, his heart stuttering in his chest for a wholly new reason that he could not find words to voice.

Boromir noticed his silence, turning around. A grin curved his thin lips, and his eyes danced as he spoke, “Have you changed your mind, my Lord? Do not forget: ‘twas you who spoke of bathing in the river.”

Aragorn shook his head, brushing away the cobwebs of memories that should be laid to rest along with his mortal body. “No, I have not forgotten.” He tugged at his belt, his fingers nimble even as his eyes fixed on the sight of Boromir’s revealed body. “You are beautiful, Boromir, so much that my mind emptied itself.”

“If you lay the blame upon my shoulders, allow me to make amends,” replied Boromir laughing. He strode forward, large hands laying themselves over Aragorn’s fingers as he tugged the belt out of its loops. Dropping the leather carelessly on the ground, he unlaced Aragorn’s breeches.

“This is your Ranger’s wear, Aragorn,” murmured Boromir as he slid heavy cloth over hips. “Your face has not changed either, though surely it must have in the long years you spent in Middle Earth.”

“Time turned back on itself when I died,” answered Aragorn, barely able to keep his voice from shuddering as Boromir’s sword-roughened fingers brushed his skin. “I found myself in this form when I awoke upon the Lord Lukasarkuva’s back.”

“The Valar see deeply into Men’s hearts,” said Boromir. His hands slid upwards, tugging on the hems of Aragorn’s tunic and undershirt. “You have remained a Ranger.”

“Aye,” replied Aragorn, smiling lopsidedly. His hands curled over Boromir’s hips, relishing in the gentle heat he found against his own skin. “I named my house ‘Telcontar’ for ‘tis as a Ranger I was born, and a Ranger I will always remain.”

“Not merely a Ranger, but a Ranger King,” corrected Boromir. He leaned back slightly, allowing Aragorn to pull the embroidered red cloth of his tunic over his head. “My Ranger King, Aragorn, if you allow it.”

Aragorn did not reply immediately. Instead he tugged the remainder of his clothing over his head, standing naked in front of Boromir. There were only single pair of eyes upon his form, and though Aragorn could feel heat instinctively suffuse the skin of his neck and face, he refused to feel shame. Such a despicable emotion had no place amongst the dead who were freed from the cares of the world.

“Aye,” said Aragorn eventually. He spread his fingers open, laying them on Boromir’s chest, above his beating heart. “I allow it, and far more.”

They walked together with their steps equal towards the lake. The water was chilled, the sun’s warmth blocked by the heavy canopies of the trees that surrounded the lake. In another time Aragorn would come back here and note every plant; he would marvel at the sight of things he thought had been long lost to the world of Men. Yet now the green that caught and held his sight was that of Boromir’s eyes, the edges crinkling into a smile as he drew Aragorn into his arms.

“I have been here for time longer than I knew, but I still marvel at being able to feel after death,” murmured Boromir into his ear. 

“This world is a great blessing to us all who are allowed to come,” replied Aragorn. “Yet ‘tis not the world that has me in its thrall.”

“A thrall, Aragorn?” Boromir raised an eyebrow, obviously amused. “There is little that you have seen of me just yet.”

With those words, Boromir disappeared from his sight, sinking to his knees until only his shoulders and head were above the water. Aragorn’s lips parted to ask of his intentions, but Boromir silenced him with a heated kiss against his hips.

“Steel your knees,” commanded Boromir, and that was the only warning Aragorn was given before Boromir ducked his head into the water. Heat enveloped him as Boromir swallowed him down, and Aragorn’s gasp echoed through the still air as he felt himself harden almost painfully quickly.

Boromir’s name escaped him, a mangled word, and Aragorn’s hand slipped into the water to card into golden hair. He held on tightly like it was his only anchor, his body shuddering as his hips thrust sharply forward. The pleasure was wholly unexpected and almost too overwhelming, and Aragorn trembled from head to toe.

“You are full of surprises,” he managed to say, but the words were for his own sake for he knew Boromir could not hear him. His hand tightened even more on the strands as Boromir took him in even further, and he could feel Boromir’s throat clench around his length. Bubblers floated upwards, bursting against his skin, and he felt Boromir’s laughter thrum against him. Aragorn’s head dropped backwards, moaning loud and shamelessly.

It was too much, too sudden, and Aragorn could not help himself. Pleasure was ripped out of him from the depth of his heart, the gentle warmth of the love he always felt for this Man turned into wrenching lust. His hips thrust forward helplessly, but Boromir held him still with strong hands that anchored him to the ground and the land. Aragorn’s other hand found its way to Boromir’s shoulders, digging into heated flesh with his nails as he fought not to writhe.

His voice spoke Boromir’s name over and over again, a litany that beat like war drums next to his heart. This was beyond any dream he ever had for Boromir, the sound wrapped its chains around him, tying him to reality. The rough, scraping pain of his throat reminded him that this was real and blissfully true, and as Aragorn fell over the edge, it was with a final cry of Boromir’s name on his lips.

His knees could not hold him up any longer and he sank down to the muddied ground. In front of him, Boromir was an absolute vision, his hair plastered down, accentuating the curve of his cheekbones, and Aragorn surged forward, crashing their lips together. The taste of his essence mixed with that of Boromir’s mouth made him groan again, and Aragorn felt as if he was younger than twenty again as his spent length twitched against his thigh in the cool river water.

“You have given me far more than I can ever repay,” rasped Aragorn, his forehead leaning against Boromir’s shoulder. His fingers traced the strong muscles of Boromir’s back, and he would have counted the knobs of his spine if he had the mind for it at the moment.

“Do not speak of such things as payment,” said Boromir, his voice low and rough against Aragorn’s ear. A soft kiss pressed against his temple. “’Tis my greatest pleasure.”

“Then let me--” Aragorn reached downwards.

Boromir caught his wrist, lifting it up to brush his lips over Aragorn’s knuckles. “I need naught more than your presence beside me, Aragorn,” he murmured. “Let us keep some pleasure for the next moments.”

How had he forgotten Boromir’s wilful and stubborn nature in the long years they were apart? Aragorn smiled wryly, turning the hand still on his backwards. His beard rasped against smooth skin as he kissed it. A Boromir who obeyed his every wish was no Boromir at all, only a dream; Aragorn far preferred reality. 

He stood slowly, finding himself sudden lethargic. A passing thought struck him: it was strange indeed that the dead would still feel tired during what Men had long thought to be their eternal rest. Yet here, he knew, he was but a Man, nothing more or less, and he wished to lie beside Boromir now on the banks of this stunning river.

Following him only until they reached the banks, Boromir took the lead once more. He dragged his heavy red velvet cloak close, draping it over the two of them as they lay on the grass. Aragorn could feel the heat of his unfulfilled desire against his thigh, but it was alright.

In these lands, there was no need to hurry. Long gone was the urgency that drove each of their steps during the Fellowship’s journey. Here, they had all the time in the world.


	5. Wear This Pilgrim’s Cloak, or be a Common Thief

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: [On your knees](http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/2320.html?thread=9143568#t9143568).

**Wear This Pilgrim’s Cloak, or be a Common Thief  
** _Aragorn/Boromir, implied Aragorn/Arwen, NC-17_

Though clouds suffused the blue skies and Boromir was warm beside him, Aragorn refused to allow his eyes to close. He felt exhaustion tug at the edge of his being but he needed to drink in the sight of Boromir more than he needed rest. Gondor’s truest son was a vision to behold, his hair wet and messy, a smile of pure joy and satisfaction that Aragorn had never seen before lighting up his eyes.

Aragorn reached out, gently pulling golden strands away from Boromir’s face. 

“I remember your voice during our journey,” whispered Boromir. “You sang the Lay of Leithian one night, the tale of the immortal Elf maiden Lúthien and her mortal lover Beren.”

It was during their times in the mines of Moria. Then, Aragorn sang to keep the shadows away from the Hobbits who were trying so valiantly to keep their spirits. His breath hitched.

“I did not think you heard me,” he said.

“You were making quite a racket, and there were no other voices I could distract myself with,” teased Boromir, his thumb grazing against Aragorn’s lip. “My Sindarin had always been poor – ‘tis Faramir who was the scholar, as you surely know – yet I heard your voice, and I knew the names you sung of.” Boromir’s eyes turned distant for a moment. 

“I met them, once.”

Aragorn nearly sat up in his shock, blinking hard. “What?”

“I met them,” repeated Boromir. His hand was heavy on Aragorn’s shoulder, pressing him back to be enveloped by grass and Boromir’s arms. “The Lord Beren and the Lady Lúthien, for whom so many songs were sung – they are here.”

“How-?” Aragorn could not continue.

“This is a land without time, Aragorn,” said Boromir, his smile gentle. “I had the honour and pleasure to meet with the legends I was told of during my youth. I had thought the bards exaggerated Lúthien’s love and courage and Isildur’s leadership, but it seems the stories do them little justice.”

“Ah, I see it now: only legends whose songs are sung for thousands of years are worthy of your admiration, Boromir,” said Aragorn solemnly. “All others are but undeserving and flawed creatures with foibles well-acknowledged. Is that not so?”

“You know that is untrue!” cried Boromir, and for the first time since Aragorn had arrived, he saw once more the harsh passions that so ruled the son of Gondor during their journeys together. “There are plenty of Men deserving of my admiration _for_ their vulnerabilities and failings, for is it not the lot of Men to be imperfect? Figures of legends drew me little in life for I knew them as only that – as figures so pure that they are unbelievable, but here I have met them and knew them to be no more perfect than any soldier of Gondor, and ‘twas their strong wills, not their inherent perfections, that honoured them.”

His voice lowered, “Do you know so little of me, my Lord?”

Aragorn’s heart clenched in his chest, and he sorely regretted his words. Sitting up, he took Boromir’s face in both hands, staring into darkened eyes. “Nay, my love, I only tease,” he whispered. “I have spoken thoughtlessly. I know your heart has always been with the world of Men with their many failings.” He smiled hesitantly. 

“How can I not, when you have made your distaste for the One’s firstborn race’s perfections so clearly?”

Boromir turned his head away, and Aragorn feared that these clumsy words were insufficient as recompense. Yet Boromir chuckled, a low, half-hollow sound, and his thumb grazed Aragorn’s jaw once more.

“Forgive me, my Lord. I have been unfair in my judgment of you.”

“Consider it forgiven,” returned Aragorn, smiling. “It seems only right that you stumble as well, for how much I stumbled over my judgment of you the first time we met.”

“Aye, but that was so long ago.”

Aragorn silenced him with a finger against his lips before he could continue. “Hush; do not chide yourself further,” said the Ranger who was once a King. “Tell me of these lands, Boromir. Tell me of the Men of legends you have met.”

“Before I tell you of those tales, let me ease your heart,” said Boromir. “I know our Queen will come, Aragorn. Arwen will come to this place and return to her rightful place by your side. ‘Tis not merely the nightingale Lúthien who is here; the Lady Idril has followed her human Lord Tuor as well.”

Taking in a long, sharp breath, Aragorn wondered if Boromir understood how much of a gift he had given his once-King. He remembered Arwen’s anguished face when he told her of his decision to take the Gift of Men before his faculties begin to fail him; remembered, too, that he had reassured her that their love was beyond the circles of the world, but he had not been sure of those words he had spoken to her until now.

The grief in his heart that lingered despite Boromir’s presence now eased like a knot slowly being pulled apart. Aragorn exhaled slowly, his smile soft and sweet as he looked at Boromir.

There were no other words in the language they shared that could suffice for the gratitude he felt for the knowledge Boromir had given him, but he had to try, nonetheless. 

“Thank you.”

Boromir’s lips curved up, his thumb stroking over Aragorn’s lip.

“Isildur is here as well,” he said.

Aragorn blinked. Isildur was less of a Man than a symbol of the weight of the burdens that were laid upon his shoulders on his twentieth year. When Arnor was slowly rebuilt in the times of peace, he kept Isildur in his mind, trying to glean some guidance for the path he knew he had to take to return the broken city into the glory of the world of Men as it had once been. But Isildur the Man had remained ever elusive within the stories that he knew of him, for the legends showed only a fraction of a Man, and such bits and pieces gave so little light for him to find his way.

Closing his eyes, he leaned into Boromir’s touch, seeking comfort.

“Tell me of him,” whispered Aragorn.

“I met no great King, no leader of Men,” said Boromir. “He lives far from the Tower, to the North in a farm hidden within the valleys. He grows his own grain and tames the animals around him. His brother Anárion lives with him.”

“Anárion!” exclaimed Aragorn helplessly. “The legends told of his death but mentioned nothing of Isildur and Elendil’s grief.”

“Aye, they grieved, and they grieved deeply for Anárion’s death was not an easy one,” said Boromir. “Yet this is a place of a new life, a second life, and few here think of death now.”

Aragorn fell silent for a long moment. He looked up to the skies so blue and brilliantly bright that he was reminded once more of Gondor during the beautiful day after Sauron’s defeat. Surely it was the healing space of time that allowed Isildur to stop thinking of the world he had left behind, for Aragorn could not. Once, in the Reunited Kingdoms, it was the dead who haunted his steps. Now in this land of the dead, it was those that still lived.

He shook his head hard, trying to dislodge these dark thoughts. “How strange it is to think of a great King as a mere farmer,” he murmured, turning back to Boromir. “Yet ‘tis surely the path he has taken his true wish?”

“Aye,” replied Boromir. “No longer are the burdens of ruling for Isildur, and he seems far happier in this state.”

“’Tis a strange thing to say, but ‘tis stranger still for me to think of a great King who chooses to become little more than a farmer,” murmured Aragorn softly. “My burdens were once his burdens. ‘Twas the blood that we share that made me more than a Ranger and allowed me to become King.”

“You give yourself too little credit, my Lord,” said Boromir, his tone chiding. “Blood did not make Kings; if that is the only criteria, then surely your line would have been made Kings long ago. No, Aragorn, you are the King that Gondor sorely needed, and though your blood legitimised your claim, ‘twere your deeds that made you worthy of the Winged Crown.”

Strange it was to hear such praise from Boromir’s lips, stranger still for Aragorn had always wished to hear them. There were none else who loved Gondor as much as this Man; none else who represented her more. Long were the nights that Aragorn spent in the Citadel, staring at the statue Faramir had built of his brother, wondering if Boromir was glad of the changes he had wrought upon Gondor.

Aragorn cast his eyes down. “Let us speak no more of kings and kingships,” he said finally. “Tell me of the friends we share instead; are they here?”

“Aye, they are,” smiled Boromir. “Faramir and the White Lady of Rohan his wife arrived on the back of the great hawk at the same time. Éomer is here as well.”

“Come now, Boromir. Do not tease; you know the friends I wish to hear most about.”

Boromir chuckled, his grin wide as he stroked Aragorn’s cheek. “Merry and Pippin are in the Tower. Like you, they have been restored to their looks during their time in the Fellowship.”

“What of Frodo and Sam?” asked Aragorn, who knew that Sam, by the merit of bearing the Ring for a hours when Frodo could not, had followed his master over the seas to Valinor. “What of Legolas and Gimli?”

“I do not know,” frowned Boromir. “Only Elves who have chosen mortality and taken mortal Men as their lovers are here. I know not if…” he hesitated, “If those who have sailed to Undying Lands of the Elves will ever arrive.”

Aragorn leaned over, pinning Boromir hard against the ground. “I will not let sorrow taint this day,” he said, his voice harsher than he wanted it to be. He looked deep into Boromir’s eyes before he kissed him, pressing their mouths together and breathing in Boromir’s heated breath, feeling it settled in his lungs as an affirmation of this Man presence. Aragorn nearly trembled, but he stilled himself, pulling away for the briefest of moments.

“I have long dreamed of this.”

Boromir parted his lips to speak, but Aragorn would not allow him a single word. Instead, he slipped downwards, sword-callused fingers stroking down Boromir’s sides, mapping the lines of his body. There was an insistent heat against his thigh, and Aragorn ducked his head down to attend to it.

The strong warrior’s body, untouched by years, shook beneath him. Boromir arched upwards but Aragorn placed his hands on slim hips, holding them down. He parted his lips – and for the briefest moment he was struck by a horrible sense of insecurity as it as it had been far too long since he had done this – and took Boromir into his mouth.

“Aragorn!” Boromir’s cry resonated around the glade. Aragorn smiled around his mouthful, ducking his head down further as he felt strong fingers slide into his hair, urging him to move faster. But Aragorn had been kept waiting for far too long and he would not be rushed now, not when he so enjoyed the feel of Boromir’s needful struggles caused by naught more than his hands and mouth.

He had not lasted long, and Aragorn was gratified when he realised Boromir could not either. It took only a few moments of having Boromir’s length in his mouth before he felt a rush of heavy and bitter salt landing on his tongue and throat. Aragorn swallowed immediately, compulsively, and Boromir’s soft moan made him shiver to the depths of his bones.

He pushed himself up, pressing his knees against the soft, grass-covered ground. Boromir’s eyes were wide, his pupils blown until the green was but a thin rim. Aragorn grinned at the sight, almost involuntarily proud, and he leaned in to allow Boromir to taste himself.

“’Tis long that I have waited,” murmured Boromir, his words nearly muffled by Aragorn’s lips. His fingers carded through Aragorn’s hair, and he was still panting as he pulled away, looking deep into Aragorn’s eyes.

“I do not begrudge a single moment, for the joy you have brought me has filled up my hollow heart.”


	6. Eternities Still Unsaid

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No prompts for this one.

**Eternities Still Unsaid _  
_**Aragorn/Boromir, Aragorn/Arwen, implied Boromir/Arwen and Aragorn/Arwen/Boromir

Aragorn kept track of the days through making small marks on a _laurinquë_ tree found near the Tower. Its clusters of bright yellow flowers and its sweet scent reminded him somewhat of Arwen, and he kept time for her. Though he had found new joy with Boromir, there was still an ache within him. Even in the gentle peace of death, his heart was still incomplete and he missed the lady with whom he had spent his long years of life.

The first time Boromir had watched him placing those marks, he laughed and told Aragorn that he placed marks on the same tree, and the marks always disappeared the next day he saw them. He tried for days he could not count, making a mark on the same place, but they never remained.

Yet the mark Aragorn made remained; all of them did. He could not help but hope that it was a sign from the invisible One who ruled over this land that Arwen would be with them soon.

Nearly four hundred marks later – a single year in Man’s reckoning, so little for an Eldar’s – Aragorn sat with Boromir near the river. The grass rustled as it often did with the coming of the great hawk Lukasarkuva, and Aragorn found himself standing. Though he had greeted the hawk many a times since his first coming, wishing to express his gratitude to the creature for bringing him here, Lukasarkuva never once replied.

Now he watched as the small speck in the wide skies grew. Boromir was silent next to him, his hand a reassuring weight on Aragorn’s shoulder. Aragorn knew not the reason for his sudden anxiety, but as the hawk landed on the ground, his claw scraping lines once more on the green grass that never died from such rough traction, his breath caught.

He could recognise the form upon the hawk anywhere. The shadow-dark hair he knew well, and the face, so beautiful and unchanged throughout the years, he knew as well as the face of the Man who now stood next to him.

“Arwen,” Aragorn breathed, and the Ranger stepped forward and took the hands of the Queen to help her steady herself as she half-stumbled from the hawk’s back.

His eyes drank his fill of Arwen. No longer were her eyes darkened with grief as they were since the day he told her of his choice; they were brilliant now, light appearing in them like stars on the night sky as the Sun finally yielded his grip.

“I did not think I would see you again,” said Arwen, her voice trembling slightly. “Such a long time passed in my mind since the day I saw you last, Estel, and I thought I had lost you completely to the sands of time.”

Great wings spread as Lukasarkuva took off, sending gales that whipped through their hair. Aragorn reached out with a trembling hand, tucking stray strands of Arwen’s hair back behind the curve of one finely-tipped ear.

“You are here,” breathed Aragorn. “Though Boromir had tried to reassure me, I feared--” he shook his head hard, clearing it of all unpleasant thoughts. They had no place now, not when his heart was finally full, its last ache dissipating like smoke in the wind. 

“Long have I waited for you, my Evenstar, my Undómiel.”

“Scores years ago I arrived in Gondor in a carriage, escorted by my father and brothers; now I come to this land on the back of a great hawk, yet my destination has remained unchanged.” Arwen’s fingers were warm on his cheek, and Aragorn tipped his head, leaning into the tender touch. “I come to you, my King, my beloved, and my heart is at peace.”

Aragorn reached for her, wishing to take her into his arms and taste the sweetness of her lips, to renew the memories that were in danger of fading in these days when he was no King, only a Man amongst Men in these lands. But Arwen pulled away from him, her lips curved upwards into a secretive smile, and she turned to Boromir.

“Long have I heard of you, Boromir of Gondor,” said Arwen. “Long have I grieved for your passing, and for scores years I held a regret in my heart that I did not learn you better while we were both in my father’s valley of Imladris.”

“Nay,” replied Boromir. He gave Arwen a deep bow, and his body folded as he fell onto his knees like a soldier pledging his fealty to his Lord. “’Twas my own stubbornness that kept me from seeking you so long ago. I wished to.” He lifted his eyes, and his smile was sweet and hesitant. “Tongues have praised your beauty, my Queen, but it seems no words can do justice to it.”

Aragorn wished to reach out and draw Boromir to his feet for this proud Man did not belong to his knees. Yet he could not move, for he knew instinctive that it was not his place to interfere. This moment belonged to Arwen and Boromir.

“Do not kneel before me, Boromir. We are equals here, in these lands where I am told there are no Kings or Queens but merely Men, Hobbits, and the Elves who have pledged their troths to Men.” Despite her claim, Arwen was regal still in her speech as she reached down and took Boromir’s hands in hers. “Will you call me Arwen?”

“Arwen,” murmured Boromir. He darted a glance towards Aragorn, and the uncertainty in his eyes twisted at Aragorn’s heart.

“Have no fear. I know Estel’s heart well, and I welcomed you into it long ago.” Slowly, Arwen straightened, and she brought Boromir back to his feet. She grinned suddenly, and the sight soothed Aragorn’s heart more than he could say. 

“I only hope you do not mind my presence after spending a year with him.”

Boromir shook his head, golden hair falling into his eyes. He pushed the strands back, his gaze fixed unerringly to Arwen’s. “Nay, I do not. Of course not.”

“Then let there be no conflict between us.”

Raising Arwen’s hand, Boromir pressed a gentle kiss against the back. Arwen gasped, a small, soft sound, and her cheeks reddened.

“No, there is none, my--” He swallowed. “Arwen.”

Together the two of them turned towards Aragorn again, and their matching smiles were glorious to see. Aragorn stepped forward, taking both of them into his arms.

All of his previous cares were washed away like a rock made smooth by a river’s running, and happiness filled his chest so full he could barely contained it. Aye, much good he must have done during his time in Middle Earth. Surely there was no other reason to the great joy he had been given; no other way of deserving both of his great loves, warm and smiling in his arms.

_End_


End file.
